


Inconsolable

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [21]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, M/M, Mania, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s moods are mercurial and often inexplicable. I do not exaggerate in my published writings when I describe the passionate energy and focus that accompanies a case, nor the plunge into lethargy that follows. In fact, I have treated some of these periods more lightly than the truth of them warrants.</p>
<p>Doctor Watson’s unpublished writing includes a painful description of the great detective’s extreme moods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inconsolable

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpts from the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

_But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner._  
  
_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes:_ “The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual”  
  
_“My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove?”_  
  
Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson in “The Man with the Twisted Lip”  
  
  
  
Sherlock’s moods are mercurial and often inexplicable. I do not exaggerate in my published writings when I describe the passionate energy and focus that accompanies a case, nor the plunge into lethargy that follows. In fact, I have treated some of these periods more lightly than the truth of them warrants. It is not just during a case, or just for a case, that he eschews nourishment and sleep. Sometimes his brilliant mind is, as he has described, like a racing engine, and it spins and spins in a frankly frightening manner. During those manias, he speaks so quickly I cannot understand him; he cannot stand still, let alone sit or sleep.  
  
It would seem to be an advantage to have so much energy, except when it manifests as his does: he whirls about our rooms, uncharacteristically clumsy with impatience. He cannot settle down to read—not even the briefest of stories in the newspaper. His bright eyes flit from line to line, barely touching on them; not absorbing a bit. He is so jittery and on edge that he cannot use his delicate scientific instruments. He cannot sit with me to eat, and instead takes a bite or two whilst standing (if I am lucky), then flits away from the table.  
  
The most distressing manifestation of these manic times is that he cannot play his violin. It requires a precise, delicate touch and both an external and an internal stillness and calm that is impossible for him to achieve.  
  
And having written that, I correct myself. The most distressing manifestation of Sherlock Holmes’ periods of mania is his inability and lack of desire for sleep—and for lying with me in our bed.  
  
I have seen his face on some of these nights. He watches longingly as I prepare for bed. I encourage him to do the same: a soft nightshirt; a warm dressing gown. Comfortable slippers. A glass of sherry or wine and a good book in front of the fire. He tries to emulate me. He truly does try. He usually manages to change his clothes. Before we were—what we are now—I would send him into his room and he would eventually emerge thusly attired. Now, of course, I ensure that he does so by leading him into his room and as carefully as possible assisting him. He is often so impatient that he pushes away my hands, pulls violently on buttons, and even tears his fine shirts. Mrs Hudson knows when he has been in such a mood by the amount of mending she must do.  
  
Eventually, though, as I settle in my comfortable chair and open a book, he attempts to do the same—and fails. He cannot even select a book, let alone sit down and read it.  
  
He paces and pokes at the piles of papers that litter our rooms and fill every corner, sometimes tipping them over in despair and frustration. He tugs at his clothing. He tosses correspondence to the floor. He does a great deal of damage to the mantelpiece and even the furniture with his knife, and I have taken it away from him on several occasions.  
  
Of course, there is always a point at which I must give in to my own need for rest, and I reluctantly bid him good night and close myself in my own room. I never sleep well when he is in such a mood, of course—between my concern for him and the disruptions of his frenzy of activity, it is virtually impossible, but I still do sleep more than he. In the mornings he is dishevelled and incoherent.  
  
I have tried every distraction I can fabricate. At first I thought that long walks would disperse some of his excess energy, but those always seemed to turn out badly. His outbursts of temper and poor judgement during these times nearly always lead to some sort of fisticuffs or illegal activity. How many times has he been escorted home by two able-bodied policemen?  
  
I have approached the issue by attempting to focus and stimulate his mind—to engage that racing engine. I search the newspapers for intriguing headlines. I scan the agony columns. I scrabble about on the floor for discarded letters of enquiry. Unfortunately, when such a mood is upon him, he not only dismisses my comments and offers—he openly distains them. He insults my intelligence and my motivation—my professions; more recently my vacillation pertaining to our special arrangements. I admit it—even though I know that he does not truly mean what he says at those moments, his barbed tongue is painful. I have discarded this approach entirely.  
  
[A note from Sherlock is written along the margin: _I apologise for my behaviour. I have absolutely no right nor reason to insult your brilliant mind, nor your attempts to come to my assistance when I am thus stricken._ ]  
  
More recently, I have attempted the opposite—introducing as many calming elements as I am able to his whirling, out-of-control world. I pull the curtains shut and turn down the gas. I select a book—generally a novel (I find our friend Mr Dickens particularly effective)—and begin reading to him. At first, he often cannot sit down, and he murmurs and comments and talks to himself as he stalks through the cluttered room. I allow him his frantic motion and chatter, reading over his low voice without pausing—it is actually an excellent exercise in mental discipline for me—because as he paces and fidgets, he eventually does attend to my words. He begins to look in my direction more and more (I have become an expert at keeping one eye on him and one on my book). His expression begins to soften. His frantic motion slows.  
  
I celebrate—silently—when he finally sits. He often does not remain seated longer than thirty seconds at first, but I do not protest when he lunges up and out of his chair and resumes his pacing. I simply continue reading.  
  
I am actually, somehow, able to enjoy the thread of the story—if it is well written (Mr Trollope’s novels are equally effective—although I love Mr Wilde’s stories they are not quite appropriate for these situations). I believe that it is soothing for me to be able to turn my own mind to something other than my friend’s distress.  
  
I am not bragging to say that, more often than not, this approach is the most effective I have applied. My darling is able to sit for longer and longer periods. His murmuring and his constant motion slows and gradually—very gradually—fades away.  
  
I must explain that by gradually I mean over a period of days. I also do realise that he might, over that same number of days, begin to calm and still simply because of the cycle of such moods, but I also feel that by treating him thusly I am letting him know that I accept that he has no control over these fits, and that I want nothing more than to guide him to calmer waters.  
  
[Sherlock has added a note to the margin: _I do not understand why I get into such moods. They are extremely distressing. I feel as if my head is going to fly off my shoulders and I cannot stem the flow of thoughts; the motion. I am grateful beyond words that you have indeed found something that calms me, even if it is a long process. The sound of your voice—so even and sensible—is very much an anchor in a tumultuous sea of despair._ ]  
  
_“I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right.”_  
  
Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson: _A Study in Scarlet_  
  
Sherlock Holmes is a master of understatement, and I most certainly do not now just “let him alone” when he is “in the dumps.” I do not dwell on my experiences in the army in my published works, but here I can state that the injuries I treated were not just physical. Thousands of miles away from home, dropped into a strange, foreign culture in the most horrid of circumstances one can imagine—many of the soldiers I encountered suffered not just from bullet wounds. In some ways and at some times I was actually grateful that a physical injury allowed me to send a boy home because he was already suffering so much in a way that no one who has not experienced it can perceive.  
  
I admit here that I was one of those men—not when I was injured and not even as dire illness advanced, but upon my return to England—and if it had not been for the timely introduction to Sherlock Holmes, I honestly do not know what my state of mind would be now.  
  
So when my Sherlock is “in the dumps” I do truly understand that it is so much more.  
  
It is not just sadness. It is sorrow so oppressive that it seems that joy never existed.  
  
It is not being in a deep, dark hole. It is that the hole is in oneself—a deep pit in the chest that feels as if nothing will ever fill it.  
  
It is not a laziness. It is a weight so heavy that simply lifting one’s head becomes a Herculean task that no mere mortal can accomplish.  
  
It is not just a lethargy. It is a despair.  
  
He does not, as I have described, simply become still and thoughtful. This is an anguish that seeps out of his very pores. He lies on the sofa in our homely rooms in clothing he cannot bring himself to change—  
  
and he weeps.  
  
I have inquired and he has—rarely—replied, in a fashion. He does not weep about anything in particular—contrary to what many people might believe, he is not thinking about the recently widowed woman; the kidnapped child. Only once has he been able to truly reveal what distresses him so.  
  
What he revealed horrified me so much that I—I admit this in retrospect and I am truly disgusted at my own behaviour—I walked out on him. I simply put on my coat and hat and walked down the stairs and out the street door and I did not return for hours. What I did—how I responded—I am ashamed.  
  
I have since come to my senses and I would never, ever again walk away from him, for what he revealed has me more frightened than anything else I have ever considered. The words he spoke still echo and penetrate and torture me.  
  
“What upsets you so?” I had asked for what seemed like the hundredth time.  
  
He turned his gaze to me, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, and he replied.  
  
“Breathing,” he said.  
  
“What?” I asked, stupidly.  
  
“I cannot… continue breathing. I cannot bear… one more second of life. I cannot continue. I wish for it all to stop.”  
  
I looked into his exquisite eyes, and for a fleeting moment I truly understood.  
  
And then I walked out of our rooms.  
  
*  
  
How could I have done that? It had been hours, and I was literally running through the streets, needing to be back to our rooms and to him. What had I done? What had he done? He had admitted to me that he did not wish to continue living and I had left him. I was the worst person in the world. I tore up the stairs—seventeen steps, my brain unhelpfully supplied.  
  
“Sherlock?” I burst out, almost before I had the door open.  
  
He was nowhere in evidence. My heart was beating so hard that my chest hurt. I spun and immediately saw that the door to his bedroom was shut. I lunged across the room and jerked it open.  
  
The bed was empty. I saw spots in front of my eyes. I tried to breath. I noticed that the door adjoining our rooms was ajar. I knew that it had been shut. I burst into my own room and glanced around frantically.  
  
There. There he was.  
  
He was on the floor at the foot of my bed, curled up and leaning against the bedpost. I fell to my knees in front of him. “I am so sorry,” I whispered. I reached out and realised that my hands were shaking. “I will never leave you like that again—not when you are so low.” I reached out and put a finger under his chin, and raised his head with difficulty. I was mortified to see that his face was drenched with tears.  
  
“Make it stop, John,” he whimpered. It seemed as if he was thousands of miles away from me.  
  
I wrapped my arms around him, and I cannot say with certainty how long we remained there. He was garbed only in a shirt and drawers, and every bit of him was cold to the touch.  
  
“Please, please, please, my friend,” I murmured. “Come with me.” I was finally able to stand and to draw him up. He clearly would not have moved if I had not been guiding him. I brought him into his bedroom and gently pressed him to sit and then lie down in his bed.  
  
I turned and he grasped at my wrist.  
  
“Do not… do not leave me,” he managed.  
  
“No, my dear. I will not. I promise.” I seated myself on the bed and divested myself of my coat; my boots. I lay back and embraced him, disregarding the discomfort of my stiff shirtfront, cuffs, and collar. There was nothing that I could say at that moment. He did not need words. He needed me—he needed me to be there. My heart still breaks when I think of him experiencing this horrid feeling on his own. How had he managed? I know that before me, he had no one.  
  
“Make it stop,” he begged.  
  
“I would if I knew how. I swear it.”  
  
I realise now that the fact that I was, actually, in bed with him and embracing him, a bit prescient, but at the time, we were truly just friends. It did not concern me. I was also (am also) a doctor with experience with this sort of thing and he was, in my eyes, a patient. It might seem a bit peculiar, but what else was I to do? There was no medicine with which I could dose him. No number of cold, wet cloths would help. There was nothing to stitch; nothing to bandage.  
  
*  
  
I recalled then once being presented with a woman with “hysterics,” according to her husband. He described her as “weepy” and “moody” and many other unflattering things pertaining mainly to her receptiveness to him in their bedroom. She was horribly pale and thin and could not seem to focus entirely on either of us.  
  
I drew her into my examining room, gently excluding him. “I must examine her in private,” I said firmly. I already knew that it would not be a physical examination. That was not what she required.  
  
I closed the door and sat her down, then sat down myself. I did not wish to be intimidating in any manner. “Please tell me what you have been experiencing,” I said simply.  
  
“I am not ill, doctor,” she replied.  
  
“You do not suffer from an illness such as cholera,” I agreed, “but you suffer nonetheless.”  
  
She looked at me rather keenly. “I do,” she acknowledged. “I cannot say in what way, except to say that there is no fever. No purging. No wound. Nothing to indicate an injury or illness. And yet I suffer… so very much.”  
  
“What can I do to help?” I inquired.  
  
“I have no idea… unless… There is absolutely no reason that I am here, living, and no reason that I should continue. I cannot bear to take one more breath.”  
  
I felt all of my own breath leave me as she stated this.  
  
“Please, Doctor,” she continued. “Is there something that you can give me? Not to mend it. To end it.”  
  
“You know I cannot and would not do that,” I responded honestly.  
  
“Yes, I do know that. Forgive me. My husband is correct—my thoughts are disordered. I am unable to act as wife or mother.”  
  
I considered her for a few moments. I know that other doctors, presented with a similar case, would probably offer laudanum or something similar. I knew that those cases, more often than not, ended not in the relief of the sufferer, but instead in the deepest of sorrow for the patient’s family. I considered a stimulant, but was not certain of the effects. What if it simply exacerbated her feelings?  
  
“Can you go away for a while?” I inquired.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Could you go on holiday somewhere where you can have rest and quiet and some company? Without your children and husband.”  
  
She considered this. “My sister… but… by train? How… who will take care of… what is wrong with me? I cannot remember the name of the town in which she lives.”  
  
“It is your illness. I will have your husband make the arrangements.” I requested that he join us at that time, explained to him what his wife required to recover from her illness, and sent them off. I never heard from either of them again, so I never will know if she recovered herself.  
  
So what could I do to help my dear friend?  
  
*  
  
We had been lying together in his bed for a while. He would sometimes weep silently, and sometimes he would gasp for breath. I held him and once had to gently dissuade him from hitting his own head on the headboard. I was not speaking much. I did not want to pepper him with questions, which seemed to overwhelm and confuse him.  
  
Finally, he seemed slightly more calm.  
  
“Do you want something to eat?” I enquired.  
  
“It… I… I do not know.” I waited as he considered a bit and was rewarded when he finally continued, “Although I am not in the least bit hungry, I know that I need to eat. I do. But the fork is so very heavy, and when I get the food to my mouth, I cannot swallow it.”  
  
“I will help. Would that make it easier? Will you try?”  
  
He nodded, and I gently drew him out of his bed. I found him trousers and a dressing gown and covered his cold legs and arms, then helped him to the sitting room. I considered going downstairs to speak to Mrs. Hudson, but I had promised not to leave him and I did not wish to, so I rang the bell.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson,” I requested when she had made an appearance, “Mr. Holmes is not feeling well. Could you possibly make him some broth?”  
  
She looked over at him—I had him on the sofa and had covered him with a blanket—and the dismay on her face was painful. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed. “He looks dreadful. Yes, of course—I can have a very nice beef broth ready shortly.” She hurried back down the stairs and I sighed in relief. Beef broth was perfect—nourishing and warm and also easy to feed to him. I hoped that he would be able to take some in.  
  
That evening he spat out half a dozen spoonsful of the broth into his napkin—I had gently introduced each but, as he had stated, he seemed unable to swallow—and I was beginning to despair when, with an immense effort, he allowed some of the liquid to slip down his throat. After that, it was a bit easier, but he had consumed very little before he shook his head and I knew that he could manage no more at that time.  
  
The next several days proceeded in much this fashion. True to my word, I did not leave our rooms. Our wonderful, reliable friend downstairs took care of any errands I might need done and brought up a steady stream of nourishing and tempting dishes. She also kept visitors away. I was so very grateful.  
  
Sherlock was terrified. He would whimper if I was out of his sight for more than a few moments; I had to reassure him that I was not going far and that I would return instantly. The only time I was able to have to myself was when he slept. That was challenging in that, when presented with the idea of retiring to his bed, he would panic, but I discovered that I could get him to fall asleep in the sitting room, so I allowed him to do so and would then take advantage of the time to tend to my personal needs.  
  
On the third day I was able to get him to bathe and I shaved him.  
  
On the fourth day, he requested and drank a cup of tea.  
  
On the fifth day, he looked out the window onto the street.  
  
On the sixth, he pointed at the newspaper, and I happily began to read him the more interesting articles.  
  
That evening I was able to move him into his bedroom, change him into proper nightclothes, and get him into his bed. I did not, of course, turn down the gas or close his door, and I made it very clear that even when I retired myself that I was just in the next room if he needed me.  
  
The morning of the seventh day, he rose not long after I did and joined me for breakfast. He was still having trouble eating, but he did try. I was so very proud of him.  
  
*  
  
Now that we are to one another—what we are—I look back at this period with some astonishment. It was so very early in our friendship—we were really barely acquainted in some ways—but tending to Sherlock when these horrible moods struck him was something that I never once considered a burden or an imposition. As with his headaches, I understood that he was not able to control them, and although I could not truly treat them as I did his poor head, I do believe that I was a comfort.  
  
Now, of course, I see the signs of these impending moods, often before he does, and so am prepared for his sudden bursts of temper during an investigation; his sullen refusal of a case.  
  
Why do I stay with him if he is so difficult? I stay because, quite simply, he is who he is. He is mercurial moods and flashes of brilliance. He is omniscient; he is utterly innocent. He is energy and sloth. He is biting insults and heartfelt compliments. He is simply Sherlock Holmes--and I cannot bear to consider my life without him.  
  
[Sherlock has added: _You are my doctor, but you are so much more. When my moods seize me, as they have for most of my life, no one else has ever seemed to understand them. I do not understand them. I do not wish to feel so frantic, nor so low, and yet I have not once been able to alter the path once I am on it. You seem to have discovered a way to meet me on the path and lead me off in another direction—and for that I am so grateful, for I do know what lies at the end of my own path, and no matter what I say when I am not myself, I truly do not wish to ever reach it._  
  
_I do love you so very much, John—more than my words will allow me to express._ ]  
  



End file.
